


Smoke and Juniper

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Hands of a Healer, Hands of a Rogue: Min Hawke x Anders [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dragon Age Quest: The Last Straw, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders and Hawke flee the ruins of Kirkwall, taking refuge on Sundermount.  Hawke has some thinking to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Juniper

There’s dirt ground in between her toes, staining her hauberk, under her fingernails.  Her hair smells of smoke from the campfire.  She hasn’t been out of doors this long since they fled Lothering and the King’s fall, years ago, Bethany and Mother and Carver, Aveline and Wesley.  Now there’s only Bethany, lost to the Wardens, and Aveline, miles behind them.

Hawke misses Kirkwall already.

But she doesn’t miss the screams, no, nor the demons in the streets, the templars with terrible faces and the mages gone mad.  She doesn’t miss the red light boiling from the Chantry, Orsino’s grotesque fate, Meredith forever petrified in the Gallows.  Doesn’t miss  _them_ , but she misses the house in Hightown, the cobbles underfoot.

She takes the first watch, fighting with Anders about it.  They’re both hungry and tired, and she’s found him strange and prickling these past two days.  He’s been a jumble of emotions since the Chantry, jubilant, horrified, a light in his eyes and a darkness behind them.  He insists on taking the watch, but he can barely stand, exhausted from their flight.  She stands firm, digs her toes into the loam of the Sundermount, lends steel to her voice.  

“You need sleep,” she says, and there’s an awful finality to her words, like this isn’t a spat about a single night between two lovers, but a judgment of doom upon the world.

Then again, hadn’t it been just yesterday that Anders sat with his back to her, trembling, waiting for the knife in his ribs?

She forces the image away –  _how his shoulders shook_  – and lays a hand on his cheek, rough stubble brushing against her palm.  His face softens, quiet coming to him then.

“Let me,” she says, and he nods, sagging with the need to sleep.

So Hawke perches near the fire, eyes glinting in the darkness, wondering what will become of them.  It wasn’t only the Chantry that fell; she could feel the ripples already spreading out of Kirkwall.  There had been so many riders leaving the city, messenger birds on the air.  The Marches would know of this; Ferelden and Orlais too.  The air itself tastes different, and not only because of the taste of smoke and the smell of juniper that permeates these woods.  It’s a new world, writ large by the man curled up tired and worn near their little fire.

Hawke watches him for a moment, forgetting to scan the darkness for threat or foe.  She rubs her eyes, exhausted herself, and lets out a long breath.  Maker, but he’s gotten thin, despite her best efforts to keep him sleeping regularly and eating well.  She slips from her spot to kneel down beside him, reaching out to brush the hair out of his eyes.  Her chest aches with far more than she knows what to do with – love, anxiety, anger, understanding, forgiveness – and she sighs, running her hands through his hair.  He hasn’t had a chance to brush it and it’s tangled, catching the rough edges in her fingernails as she slowly twines her fingers through the blond locks.  

Anders stirs in his sleep, and for a moment, blue light glimmers on his skin, between his eyelashes.  Some dream in the Fade, she supposes; she’s grown used to the way he and Justice commune more fully at night, the Veil’s lifting allowing them both a voice instead of one overtaking the other.  Anders’ lips move, a few words slipping out, lost in the sound of the crackling fire.

Hawke pulls her hand away and lets him be.  She settles down beside him with her chin resting on her knees, and gazes into the night.

She wakes up hours later, confused and tucked carefully into her bedroll.  She yawns, pulling the blanket down from over her shoulders.  The grey light of predawn suffuses the pines and junipers with an eerie glow that seems to come from within more than without.  

“Anders?” Hawke murmurs, wiping the sleep from her eyes.  She blinks blearily at the fire, props herself up on one elbow and looks around.

Anders is already up, tending something over the fire, and Hawke sniffs.  Over the trees and the fire she smells something cooking; it’s rich and warm and she’s alive with a sudden ravenous hunger.  She rumples her hair with one hand, failing entirely to smooth it.

“When did I fall asleep?” she asks.

“Good morning, love,” says Anders, giving her a lopsided grin.  There are still dark circles beneath his eyes, but they’re less deep than they were last night.  “When I woke up for my shift I found you sleeping.  I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

“Some night watchman,” she grumbles.  “What are you making?  It smells delicious.”  She pulls off her blanket, getting stiffly to her feet.  It’s been a very long time since she slept out of doors, and she’s sore all over.

“Fennec stew,” Anders says, stirring the small camp pan.  “Something I learned how to make when I was with the Wardens.  Molossus was most helpful this morning, going out and catching it.”  He gives a nod to the Mabari, prowling around the edges of camp.

His lopsided smile quirks harder to one side before fading.  Thinking about the Wardens always seems to make him sad.  She thinks of Bethany, and she thinks she understands.  “I can’t say I’m thrilled to be back in the wilderness again, but I can’t complain about the company.”  He glances at her, the smile slowly creeping back to his face.  It’s tender and the look in his eyes pulls at her.

“Anders,” Hawke says quietly.  She stretches, then settles down beside him on the log next to the campfire.  Their shoulders touch, and she turns to the side, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

“What was that for?” he asks.

Hawke shrugs.  She can’t put it into words right now.  Horsemen and message-birds spread the word, and Kirkwall smolders behind them.  The feeling from last night comes back tenfold.  The woods seem  _awake_ , somehow; like everything’s changed, like everything’s  _new_  and a little frightening but working toward something  _better_.  

She looks at Anders, his tawny eyes, his mussed hair, his narrow nose, and she says something she knows how to say.  

“I love you, Anders.”

He slips his arm over her shoulders, pulls her to him, kisses her forehead.  His lips are warm, his breath a gentle puff against her skin, and she thinks  _We can do this._

“I love you, Hawke.”

**Author's Note:**

> One of my Hawke's Mabaris is named Molossus for the Molossian Hound known as the [Jennings Dog](http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collection_object_details/collection_image_gallery.aspx?partid=1&assetid=257317001&objectid=467443) in the British Museum, my favorite sculpture I saw in Europe. Just loved its expression more than other Molossian Hounds I've seen :)


End file.
